


Science of Sound

by Renaris



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renaris/pseuds/Renaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collaboration with the wonderful <a href="http://renaris.tumblr.com/">Len</a> that touches on Carlos’ time in Night Vale, from his first day there to the growing uneasiness that comes from his extended, and seemingly never-ending, stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Science of Sound

Carlos comes for the mysteries, but he stays for the voice. He assures himself it’s solely for the former. That his purpose in this little town is scholarly, scientific. He has a lab after all, and a lab coat. He has beakers, Bunsen burners and tongs, everything a scientist could need.

Not that he remembers setting it up, or even renting the space. It was just kind of… there, like he was. One day staring down an expanse of road with power lines and the smell of too-hot asphalt meeting his nose. 

He’d walked to a home, a quaint little thing with white-trimmed windows and a matching picket fence. The key to the door was in his pocket, and he knew the layout of the house already. There was the dinette with its mismatched chairs, and the one table leg that was shorter than the others.

There’s the old battered couch that’s missing a cushion, and the television that can only be worked by hand, no universal remote able to control it. The wood paneling of the hallway has deep gouges in it from too-heavy furniture being dragged across it.

It’s all distantly familiar to Carlos, like a childhood home he lived in for only a few months. Something real, but on the outskirts of his memory.

He’s too weary to think much of it, too terribly, infinitely weary. He changes into pajamas- his pajamas, already in the dresser, and turns the lights out. When he crawls into an already broken in bed with unmade sheets, the familiarity slips away in the lucidity that comes before a deep sleep.

He knows no one. First and foremost, he is self-sufficient, as any scientist should be. But outside of that, outside of work, he is now alone and in a new land.

He reaches out in the dark with one hand when the white noise of silence becomes too much, fumbles blindly with the buttons and knobs on the radio before it’s crackling to life. The stations are fuzzy and few and emit the sounds of bumble bees and deep-sea creatures.

None of it is comforting until he finds a single station with speaking, and not the quiet, nearly inaudible murmurs from too-far frequencies he’s been finding. Instead the voice is deep and clear, tones smooth as still water without the stagnation.

It’s the first voice he hears in this town, and it’s what he hangs onto as his eyelids grow heavier. The voice tells him about the soon-to-open dog park, references upcoming political debates, announces that the weather is about to be addressed.

Carlos thinks his mind must be too scrambled by sleep when a song plays instead. It’s sweet and low, and he falls asleep amidst the notes, wondering still what the weather will be.

——-

Carlos wakes to sunlight piercing through the slits of his blinds and burning into his eyes. He rolls over and drags the covers over his head, but the damage is done. His mind is awake without regard for the rest of his body. It keeps him up, ignores his still-tired muscles and his wishes to stay in bed.

He drags himself to the bathroom to shower, catches his reflection in the mirror as he passes it. It’s him, it’s certainly him, but his hair is longer and unkempt. He wonders how long it’s been like this, a dark and wild mess that’s been growing without his attention.

He decides that today will be one of exploration in Night Vale. That he will take to the streets, familiarize himself with the roads, and in the end, get himself a haircut. A scientist can’t be taken professionally if he looks more mad than not.

The shower water runs hot as Carlos’ mind runs wild. He tries to recall what it is that brought him here specifically, but the harder he tries to recall, the more quickly the reasons seem to slip away. He’s sure he has a list somewhere, files and documents that piqued his interest and led him here.

He’ll find them eventually, once the fog of sleepiness has lifted from his mind.

But it doesn’t leave, even when he’s showered and drying off, stepping into clean slacks and socks. He rustles through the armoire full of tops and picks out a Hawaiian shirt. Nothing about it is tacky, Carlos makes sure of that. It’s understated and dark, the buttons glossy and the tropical hibiscuses few and far between.

He heavily debates between flip flops and loafers before he leaves. He fancies himself as casual, approachable. The cool kind of scientist that everyone likes. He nixes the flip flops after trying them on twice; he isn’t here on vacation.

He brings a lab coat along in case the weather sours, and not because he feels naked without one.

The rest of the town turns out to be in the same sleepy state as Carlos. They move past him with their feet a little too far ahead of the rest of them, like they’re only along for the ride. They smile and make small talk in all the right ways, but their responses are canned one-liners, like animatronics not meant for conversation, only show.

He eats lunch at a divey little diner, tucked away in a corner booth too big for him. He orders breakfast, lists off how he’d like his eggs done, what kind of bread he wants, whether he’ll pick sausage links or Canadian bacon.

Carlos will never not order breakfast at restaurants. It is proven, scientifically, that those who always eat breakfast do better. So he always eats breakfast.

He makes his way down the main street with a full stomach and a lighter step. He listens to a man on the street corner who claims to be Jesus, and takes shelter under a bus stop when the sky threatens a light rain.

He stops into the first barber shop he sees, the pole outside a beacon. The man who runs it in nice enough, though he seems to have nervous hands. He thinks out loud, and more than once makes a dissatisfied exclamation while cutting Carlos’ hair.

The end result is shorter than Carlos would like, but it’s bearable. He thanks the man and takes his leave, weariness making its way from the soles of his feet to the top of his head the nearer he is to home.

He spends the evening involved in quiet thought regarding soil samples and rearranging his lab coats in order of length and whether they are white, off white, or antique white. Tree branches scratch at his windows, regardless of the windless conditions outside.

Dark falls all too soon, and as the exhaustion of an active day sets in, Carlos makes his way to the bedroom again. His hands go for the radio first, his clothes second. Amidst the shuffling and rumpling of his outfit as it’s tossed into the hamper comes the voice that Carlos now knows.

It’s a confident purr as he flicks the light switch, welcomes him to the program. It speaks to him not as an announcer would, overdone and loud with too many emotions, but with the warmth and happiness of old friends just reunited. Carlos catches a name this time, one to pin to the voice.

Cecil.

Cecil tells him— no, warns him, about the dog park, no explanation given as to why everyone needs to steer clear of it. It’s baffling to say the least, but it’s not alarming. What is alarming is when his name is mentioned. For a split second he can almost see Cecil’s mouth move as he pronounces his name, lips curling and tongue rolling as speaks.

Cecil claims with all the fluidity of an honest man that Carlos called a town meeting earlier, let them know that he was highly interested in the happenings of their town for the purpose of science.

It’s right, but it’s wrong.

He recalls it happening, but not today, and most assuredly not in real life. It’s nothing but the dream he had last night, hazy and half remembered. He had known it was a dream because there were figures in the audience, blurred shapes without faces and beings ringed with light.

He sits up in bed, blinking in the dark as his eyes go to the glowing red light of his radio clock. This Cecil guy has to be talking about someone else. Carlos isn’t exactly the rarest name in the books, and who’s to say he can be the only scientist in town?

Carlos drops back on the bed with sweat on his brow, wipes it away with the back of one clammy hand as his head hits the pillow. By the time his thoughts are organized enough to concentrate on the radio again, Cecil’s voice is informing him of the opening of the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area.

Cecil paints it as picturesque and lovely, inviting to the mind’s eye. To Carlos, it’s an ideal venue for mixing business and pleasure, taking in the sights while his scientist’s mind works. His knowledge of desert flora and fauna is shamefully shallow, and the more quickly he brushes that up the more he’ll know what he’s working with.

But then Cecil mentions what the waterfront doesn’t have— water, and all of Carlos’ plans dry up quicker than a puddle in a drought. He rolls over in bed, feet kicking at the sheets as he readjusts them in the heat of the night.

He means to continue listening, but a drowsiness settles over him the longer he does, until the words are melting together to create only sound without meaning. His thoughts become distant and light, and all he can do before he drifts off to sleep is wonder how much can possibly be done in the name of science.

 

——-

Carlos meets Cecil for the first time in the frozen food aisle of Ralph’s. His attentions are focused solely on the many options for dinner before his eyes, and Kid Cuisine is fast pulling ahead of Hungry Man when it comes to his affections.

One hand is holding the fun-shaped chicken nuggets, mac and cheese in the other, when he hears the noise. It’s a soft, sort of surprised gasp, like someone who’s found twenty dollars on the pavement. His head turns to the source of the noise.

“Carlos,” the man says, and Carlos knows immediately that this is Cecil, and the way his lips curve as he speaks his name is exactly how he’s envisioned.

“Cecil, is it?” Carlos offers, he goes to shake Cecil’s hand, but finds they’re still full of Kid Cuisine.

“Is that for science?” Cecil asks, observing Carlos’ hands.

“Sure, science,” Carlos says, in the stunted way of one with no skills in small talk.

He puts them both in his cart, because science, and also because he wants fun-shaped chicken nuggets and the microwavable brownie.

“Carlos, about the science stuff,” Cecil starts, his hands finding their way to Carlos’.

He is suddenly too close, and Carlos can smell him. Picks up on the too-sweet deodorant he’s wearing, the light sweat too fresh to be covered. His hands are damp and warm all at once, and they grip so tightly Carlos is sure he can feel Cecil’s pulse through his palms.

There’s an automatic instinct that works through his muscles, has his hands trying to pull away at the sudden capture of them. He jerks once, strong.

Cecil’s grip is stronger, and Carlos doesn’t resist a second time.

“The science stuff,” Carlos finally prompts, because Cecil seems content not to finish what he’s started, instead searching Carlos’ face like an astronomer searching for a constellation.

“Right, the science stuff. I think it’s great, I am just all kinds of supportive about science, you know? Where would we be without science after all?”

After twenty seconds of staring, twenty seconds of being unable to pinpoint Cecil’s exact eye color other than scientifically improbable, Carlos realizes this is not a hypothetical question.

“In a worser place,” is his answer.

“My thoughts exactly. Can you imagine it, Carlos? I can, I absolutely can. But now isn’t the time to talk about what grotesque and deplorable shenanigans we’d be partaking in if it weren’t for science. Instead, why don’t we tone the sciencing back a little?”

Carlos narrows his eyes, unable to get a beat on what Cecil’s aiming at.

“Now I never said to stop,” Cecil tuts. “I said tone it down. Right now, the city council rates your science at an eight, and they’re not so hot about that. Why not dial it down to something safer, like a three or four?”

“Are you saying I’m in danger?” Carlos asks. He thinks this conversation must be one of the too-real dreams he’s been having, because this can’t possibly be happening.

“I couldn’t possibly imagine saying such a thing,” Cecil insists, his grip flexing on Carlos’s hands. “I’ve been a scientist too. I know how exciting and fun it can be.”

“You were a scientist?”

“Haven’t we all been, Carlos? Our hands full of sharp instruments and our heads full of ideas on how to use them. I went to school right here in Night Vale. I dissected the frogs, the pig fetus. Why, they let us take apart one of the blood sacrifices in my senior year.”

“The what?”

“Anyway,” Cecil says, his hands finally releasing Carlos’, “all I suggest is that you really tame that fast-paced city science you’ve brought to town. It’s not that I, as a previous scientist, want to see you fail. It is that I, as your friend, am looking out for you.”

Cecil’s tone is that of a parent telling a child not to touch open flame. Stern, concerned, and most of all, experienced.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Carlos says, gripping at the handlebar of his cart.

He looks at Cecil in full for the first time. From the freckles scattered across his skin from being out in the desert too long, to the tawny shade of his hair. It’s not quite slicked, but instead pushed back. As though carded through a hundred times to keep it out of his eyes as he reads.

There’s a barely-there indent in it where his headphones must lay.

Cecil’s smile doesn’t fit right on his face when he shows one to Carlos before opening the freezer door. He takes out a Kid Cuisine as well, deposits it in a cart otherwise filled with craisins and skim milk.

“For science,” Cecil says. He strokes his tie once, smoothes over the guitar fretboard pattern of it.

“Right, of course,” Carlos says.

Cecil doesn’t wave goodbye so much as he wiggles his fingers in an oddly fluid motion.

Carlos puts three more cartons of Kid Cuisine in his cart as he mulls over what’s come to pass. The part of him baffled by how he allowed Cecil to carry on for as long as he did like that is incredibly small. A minute blip on the radar.

It’s because the voice is as clear and exact and warm as it is on the radio. It’s not the forced, overhyped tone of a radio jockey. It’s the sincere noise that comes from his vocal cords, real and unaltered.

He can’t halt that voice, no matter what it says. It’s settled in his head, has been since the first time he heard it. It’s already started to creep into places it shouldn’t be, sounding off when he’s by himself, alone and tired and away from the radio.

It’s becoming the voice he thinks with, and he doesn’t want it to stop.

——-

Carlos hears his name again on the radio, spoken by Cecil’s voice.

“And listeners, oh listeners, you can’t even imagine what Carlos was doing. It was science. True, blue science. I did it with him, too.”

Carlos looks up from his Kid Cuisine dinner at the radio, chews his soggy fries and listens while he waits for the molten brownie to cool.

“I am happy to report that Telly’s terrible, despicable work is only temporary, and that Carlos’ mane is still a shining beacon of hope for our rough and tumble little town. The gray is as majestic as ever, a truly refined note in the beautiful symphony that is his hair. I am thinking it has perhaps become more noticeable, but further investigation is necessary before I can make any calls.”

With the grace and effortlessness that only Cecil’s voice has, he changes the subject to angel sightings without a missed beat. Carlos continues to sit in his chair and watch the radio, fork stuck in not-quite-warmed mac and cheese.

He wonders if something is maybe wrong with Cecil, wrong like the rest of this town. It’s nothing immediate or overt, but instead a steady realization. It’s the wet spot in the ceiling no one notices until it’s blackened with mold and about to give way.

Carlos continues to eat, continues to think, and continues to ask himself what it is about that voice he can’t stop listening to.

There has to be a science to it.

——-

Carlos doesn’t mean to take Cecil to lunch. Not entirely, at least. It’s more that he needs to speak with Cecil, needs that voice to confirm that what he’s been witnessing is real and not a trick of a mind. He’s tried texting, tried leaving phone messages, but it does nothing.

All Cecil does is answer them on air with that lilting kind of admiration, the sing-song adoration that a young girl might have for an idol. The sole route Carlos hasn’t tried is face to face, a confrontation about what’s been happening and how blasé Cecil remains to it, even as he reads it aloud for everyone to hear.

He’s on his way to where he’s been told the station is, sneakers hitting the street and thoughts distracted, when he bumps into Cecil. He goes to apologize, wets his lips and opens his mouth, before he realizes who he’s run into.

“Carlos,” Cecil says. “Wow, Carlos.”

“Cecil,” Carlos returns cordially. He holds out his hand for a shake, but Cecil clasps it instead, holds it to his chest like something precious.

“Carlos,” Cecil repeats, and the way he says it is wrong. It’s not the enunciation, the way the two syllables slip past his lips, but the tone. It’s reverent in a way that brings goosebumps to Carlos’ skin, as though instead of a prayer it’s a chanted summons in hopes of bringing something forth.

Carlos shakes his head to loosen the hold that voice has on him, clears his throat as he pulls his hand back. He watches the expression on Cecil’s face go eager, eyebrows honest and eyes attentive. There’s a spot on his forehead Carlos’ eyes can’t quite focus on.

“I was hoping to speak with you,” Carlos begins, his gaze drawn to Cecil’s tie as he twirls it around the end of one finger. There are expressive, yet crudely drawn faces on it, and Carlos dimly recalls seeing them on the internet. “I wanted to ask if you’d noticed—”

“You know what I’m noticing?” Cecil asks. He doesn’t give time for a response. “That it’s lunch time, and here we are very much without lunch. Who even knows how this sort of thing happens, truly a mystery we should attempt to solve. Or perhaps not, perhaps there are greater things in this world that call for our attentions.”

“Lunch, we’re doing lunch,” Carlos says, fingers twitching. He wants to push his hands over Cecil’s mouth, but not because he wants to speaking to stop. He wants to feel those lips move under his palms, have the hot puff of breath against them.

Cecil follows him after that, at his side like a loyal dog. He picks out a sleepy little diner as he chatters about the goings-on at the station. As they’re seated at too-big booth, he brings up station management. Says they slipped him an envelope under the crack in their door that proclaimed it illegal to have legs. There’s a concerned pause in his conversation as he taps his feet under the table, seems to realize only just now that he’s in possession of what he’s not allowed to have.

Carlos listens to Cecil’s long-winded talks, though he’s unsure if he’s indulging himself or Cecil as time passes. His eyes make their way over the menu without really taking it in, fingers plucking at a fold in the laminated corner.

“That’s really all small potatoes though,” Cecil says with a self-assured smile, and Carlos finds he’s forgotten what the current topic is. “Now the real event, why that’s—”

He trails off as their server approaches, settles his menu and lays his hand folded across it.

“Eggy thing,” are the words that come out of Cecil’s mouth when asked for his order, and this seems to be enough for their server to go off of.

“I’ll take eggs-in-a-hole,” Carlos requests, handing their menus off.

With the table now cleared of everything but their glasses of water, Carlos fiddles with the wrapper of his straw, tearing it in tiny increments. It’s not long before his hands are covered by Cecil’s, fingers long and palms erring on the clammy side.

“Now what was it you wanted to talk about?”

Carlos looks up, fingers frozen under Cecil’s touch. Cecil’s smile doesn’t curve right at the edges. He’s leaning in on his elbows, shoulders slouched and casual. His thumbs brush over chemical burns and scars on Carlos’ hands, some still fresh enough that they sting with a dull pressure under the touch.

“Horses,” Carlos says. “Haven’t you seen the horses out past where the waterfront was?”

Cecil doesn’t immediately answer, instead inclines his head for Carlos to go on.

“There’s something wrong with them. I was driving past and their knees— I don’t know exactly what it is, but they’re not right.”

“Now Carlos,” Cecil says, light and patronizing, as though he’s a teacher explaining a mind-numbingly simple idea to a young student. “First of all, there is no waterfront. Here I’ve been flattering myself all along thinking you might listen to my show, but clearly you haven’t been if you didn’t catch that.”

“I did catch that, but I also caught that there had been one,” Carlos says. He’s been to the site, seen the rubble and debris.

“No, there wasn’t. You need to let go of the idea that there ever was. And besides that, those horses belong to the Sheriff’s Secret Police. They have a mounted unit, after all.”

Carlos opens his mouth to say he’s never seen them, thinks the wiser of it, and shuts his mouth as Cecil continues on.

“I can assure you personally, so amazingly, incredibly personally, that there is nothing to be concerned about, Carlos,” Cecil says, the pressure of his hold changing with his words, emphasizing his points as he speaks. “I understand that as our favorite outsider, that maybe the mundane here can be a little alarming for you. But you have to realize how silly you sound sometimes.”

His tone drops at the end of his sentence to something rough and twisted, like his patience is beginning to wear thin. The nail of his thumb catches all too conveniently when he speaks, snagging on a particularly raw patch of skin.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Carlos says, hand twitching beneath Cecil’s touch.

When their food comes, the plates are identical. Carlos eyes them both as his hands are released, placing his own in his lap as he takes stock of the meals.

“What’s wrong?” Cecil asks, unfolding his napkin and smoothing it over his lap.

“Which of these is mine?” Carlos questions in turn. He observes the plates from every side he can.

“Well, if you’re really that hungry, they can both be yours for the low, low price of your affections,” Cecil says. His face gets an almost sour look after the words leave his mouth, like even he’s not above realizing how ridiculous they sound.

Carlos is kind enough to withhold any commentary on the remark, partially out of politeness, but mostly because the idea of traveling down a path of flirtation with Cecil doesn’t make butterflies bloom in his stomach so much as it makes locusts swarm.

He can’t tell if it’s a pleasant sensation or not.

“I’m sure it was purely by accident that they brought us both eggy thing, Carlos. I’m happy to flag down the server if you’d prefer your egg hole, but I also can assure you that eggy thing is as delicious, if not more so, than your original choice.”

Carlos doesn’t mention that the problem isn’t that there are two ‘eggy things’ on their table, but that there are two eggs in a hole. He is a scientist, not a pedant, and regardless of everything, it tastes good.

He goes home that night with the feeling of having accomplished nothing at all. It’s no longer a surprise as he hears mention of himself on air, gushed like the name of a crush. He tries to pay attention, but the words are quick to blend in an even tone until he can’t tell the sound of his own name from an alert of an impossible occurrence.

——-

Carlos tries leaving once, returns home for Thanksgiving and the dinner it promises. His family says he’s changed. He’s asks them if it’s for better or worse.

Different, that’s what they tell him. He’s changed and become something different, and they can’t say if it’s good or bad. He’s simply not the same, but they smile the smiles of people meeting a long lost family member, unsure yet welcoming.

They ask him what he’s been up to, what he’s discovered and the mysteries he’s unlocked. He keeps his conversation full of complicated-sounding words and vague stories. They’d never believe him about the things he’s witnessed, that there’s a house that doesn’t exist beyond the vision of it, and that an underground city can lie beneath a bowling alley lane.

He mentions instead that there is a dog park and a forest. That the shades of the sky are beautiful. He paints it ideal and normal, just as its own citizens do. And to them, it is normal. Perhaps to him, it’s becoming normal as well.

That night in the guest room, he fiddles with the radio. He searches in vain for the voice he knows can’t reach this far, skips stations in other languages and late night shows. He passes those with preachers and pastors, keeps going until he’s come full circle.

His mind is all too clear, like a fever has broken and the heated fog is gone from his mind. He wants it back, but only Cecil’s voice will bring it. No longer can he pretend to be a casual listener, someone who tunes in only when convenient or by accident.

His fingers work desperately fast to escape the notice of his mind, and before he knows it his phone is playing the dull ringing of a call trying to connect. He puts it to his ear just in time for the other end to pick up.

“Business or pleasure?” comes Cecil’s voice.

“It’s me, Carlos,” Carlos says. He wonders if that’s how Cecil usually answers his phone. All he’s ever heard is the chipper prerecorded message to leave a name and number in order to have his call returned.

“Of course it’s you, Carlos,” Cecil says, his voice an admiring sigh. “I have caller I.D. after all, I’m hip with it. You’re the one always starting off your messages by going on about how it’s all business. Business this, business that. Talking about how there’s something wrong with a clock or two, or how that sweet little velociraptor is making trouble outside the Red Lobster.”

“You can hardly call it sweet when it was trying to bite off the fingers of patrons.”

“I’m sure if we both tried, we could have spoken a little sense into him. I bet we could have really helped him shape up if we’d given him a sit-down talking to.”

Cecil makes it sound like some kind of joint adoption could be on the table, and Carlos lets out a weary sigh through pursed lips.

“I’m calling to wish you a happy Thanksgiving,” Carlos says, slipping it quick into conversation before Cecil can go on.

“A personal call then, isn’t it? Aren’t you just the biggest doll out there, Carlos. Calling to wish little old me, of all people, a wondrous day of thanks. I mean, I already wished you the same on air and all, but—”

“I didn’t hear it,” Carlos interrupts.

“You didn’t hear it?” Cecil asks. He sounds truly shocked, as though he’d thought that mentioning Carlos on air was a surefire way to draw his attention.

It is, but Carlos isn’t going to let him know.

“A late night at the lab, I take it?”

“Ah, not quite along those lines. Visiting home for the holidays, you know,” Carlos says, as though Cecil would know.

He shouldn’t. Carlos didn’t breathe a word of it to anyone.

There’s a silence on the other line, and Carlos almost thinks the connection’s been dropped before he hears the faint rustle of papers being shuffled through, the whine of chair legs being pulled across the floor, and the dull thump of someone sitting.

“That’s really something,” Cecil says, and he doesn’t think he sounds like he means it. There’s the sound of pen against paper, a note being jotted down, and Cecil clears his throat before he speaks again.

“I can tell you the news,” Cecil offers, and it’s brighter this time, chipper. There’s a kind of whiplash in his tone that Carlos doesn’t want to think about.

He wets his lips instead, eyes the red numbers of the radio clock next to his bed. It’s nearly 2 am.

“You aren’t still in the booth, are you?” he asks.

“Now you’re just being silly,” Cecil says. He laughs once, and only the once, and Carlos thinks he sounds tired.

Cecil starts his broadcast anew without waiting for Carlos to give the okay. He begins not with his usual greeting of ‘dear listeners,’ but instead greets Carlos personally. His voice lacks the chipper, nearly manic quality that’s the norm for him, instead dips into the lower, rasped tones of the well-worked.

Carlos slips into sleep with the sound of Cecil’s voice and the light turning of pages at his ear. He’s sure he’s listening for the wrong reason. It’s not for the news, it’s not for information. It’s for something deeper and darker, a burn under his skin and a humming in his head.

The realization doesn’t hit him like a spark of genius or a sudden revelation in the lab. It’s a slowly growing thought, a consuming sort of affliction.

He knows now that he’s different, just like everyone else in Night Vale.

——-

Carlos leaves the next morning laden with tupperware containers full of leftovers and a desire to be home. The road before him stretches into the desert, and he drives more quickly than he should under the hot sun, watery mirages ever present on the horizon. His radio is set to the low white noise of static, the station he wants to listen to still so far away.

He arrives back without fanfare. He arrives without anything at all. If there was something, he’s forgotten.

The ceiling fan above his bed spins soundlessly when he looks at it, and there’s an ache to his bones that makes his entire body heavy. The covers are pulled up to his chin, tucked under his sides too tight. He lets his eyes fall shut again, and his still-weary mind is slow to piece together the noise in his house.

There’s a humming from somewhere in the other room, a tuneless melody that lilts and warbles. The microwave beeps as it comes to a halt, and plates clatter gently on the countertop. The stale, dry smell of overheated food reaches his nose before the door to his bedroom opens.

Carlos doesn’t react until there are fingertips at his temple, brushing at the silver there. He shuts his eyes tighter instead of opening them, and a finger winds a lock of his curled hair around it.

“I’m so glad to see that you’re growing your hair out,” Cecil says. His voice carries the softness of one not meaning to disturb, but his hand says otherwise as it turns Carlos’ head.

He’s inspecting, looking for something, but Carlos has no idea what for.

“I’ll let you go back to sleep if you eat,” Cecil says, and that’s enough for Carlos to open his eyes again.

It takes longer than he’d like, longer than he wants Cecil to watch him for, to prop himself up. First on his elbows, then with his back resting against the wall. Cecil sits bedside in a chair he has no recollection of ever owning.

The plate placed in his lap is brimming with leftovers, and it’s too hot through his sheets, makes the muscles in his thighs tense from the pain. He doesn’t ask for a potholder as he spears a chunk of turkey, raises it to his lips only to blow on it.

“Did you have a nice visit with your family?” Cecil asks.

Carlos has to pause and think at that, puts his fork down as his brow furrows. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good. Adequate is the word that comes to mind first, and it’s the word that consequently leaves his mouth.

“Well, I hope it was worth it,” Cecil says. The way he folds his arms, shoulders squared and knees set apart, stirs a memory in the back of Carlos’ head.

His father, now nothing but dark skin and even darker hair when he tries to recall him, had sat the same way when he was sent home from school on account of a playground fight. He thinks if he could remember his face now, the expression would mimic the drawn lips and disappointed look that Cecil is shooting him.

“There’s paperwork, Carlos. So much paperwork. The city council can’t have people waltzing out of town all willy nilly. Do you have any idea how much red tape I had to muck through to cut your reeducation short?”

Carlos nearly chokes on a tasteless glob on mashed potatoes going down his throat as a laugh bubbles up. So that’s it, reeducation for daring to leave Night Vale without jumping through the hoops of paperwork. It doesn’t scare him to think about what it is they subjected him to, how they found him or who brought him home.

The insanity of the town is infectious.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos says. He apologizes not because he truly is, but because he knows those are the words that will perk Cecil’s expression, soften the aching hurt written across his features.

It works, and Carlos sweetens the deal by cleaning his plate right down to his greens.

——-

The first time Carlos gets off to Cecil’s voice is a coincidence. Coincidence that he happened to be in bed, coincidence that the mood lit up his nerves at that minute, and coincidence that Cecil’s voice had just encroached on the radio waves.

It’s an itch that’s needed scratching for too long now, and as his hand slips down his front, sneaks under the waistband of his boxers, he can’t help what the background noise has come to be.

Carlos conjures up no sights in his head, no fantasies as he wraps his fingers around himself and starts to pump, but instead listens. Not to the words, not to the news. He doesn’t need a death toll or an off kilter inhuman interest story smothering the growing heat that’s unwinding in his belly.

He focuses on the pitch, the rounded vowels and the carefully enunciated consonants. He wants to take that voice, record it in his lab and break it down into numbers and frequencies, watch it move along a screen like an EKG reading.

He wants it to make sense in a way he understands. He wants to keep it alive in a way no human body can, store it as data and sound and something that won’t fall prey to the passage of time. But for now it’s nothing but the immediate noise that fills his ears as he grasps tighter, jerks harder.

Carlos intends for it to be a slow build, a drawn out act with his fingertips everywhere, an exploration as in-depth as his experiments. It’s a control, he decides, something to see how long he can last how, much he can enjoy after a dry spell in the desert.

But then he finds there are so many noises he hasn’t catalogued yet. With his eyes closed, hand moving slowly, he notices it now. That Cecil has a way of puffing air in a snort through his nose when he reads a letter from Steve Carlsberg. He hears the drag of breath before bad news is announced, the upward curve of Cecil’s voice when he mentions a new establishment. His register jumps when he receives a breaking report, and Carlos wonders how he could draw that noise out for himself.

He needs these noises for himself. Not on air, but in his room, spoken when the blinds are closed and the curtains drawn. He wants them spilled across the sheets, spoken into the shell of his ear. There are other noises, there must be. Noises the air will never hear, noises that no one in Night Vale aside from Cecil knows.

The ragged begging of a man who wants release, the heightened pitch at the peak of pleasure.

It’s Carlos who makes these noises instead, his pace quickening without his notice, building until he’s a panting mess with rocking hips, one hand firm on his cock, veins raised and pulsating beneath his palm, the other fumbling on the nightstand for a tissue.

He comes all too quickly and decides that no, this won’t due. This won’t be his control, it can’t be. He cleans the dampness on his sheets, the mess on his stomach, and the radio continues on. He lies back in bed with a tired mind and sated body, eyelids heavy and sheets cozy. He barely manages to muster the strength to shut the radio off as Cecil announces that the scheduled programming after his slot is an hour of alley cats fighting.

His experiment is inadmissible.

——-

They happen to meet again at Pinkberry, amongst the stone flooring and the clean walls. Carlos doesn’t notice Cecil at first, his mind split between rain water readings and whether or not he wants gingerbread or butter pecan for his frozen yogurt of choice.

It’s not until he’s paying— or trying to pay, that he sees Cecil. Cecil, who’s so close he can smell the scent on him. He’s not sure what it is. It’s trying to be cinnamon, it’s trying to be spice. It’s intoxicating in all the wrong ways, and Carlos wants to pull away.

He doesn’t, he can’t.

He watches instead, Cecil with his hip resting against the counter, smile wide but lips thin, no sign of teeth as he covers Carlos’ bill. Carlos means to stop him, but instead he’s caught staring at what appears to be Cecil’s tie, the pattern of which is made up of many smaller ties.

“Finally getting out of that lab of yours?” Cecil asks. He has a handful of frozen yogurt, and his other goes to clap Carlos on the shoulder. He guides Carlos out the door, squeezes in what might be a warning, in what might be fondness, when Carlos absently tries to shrug his touch off.

“I appreciate your kindness, Cecil, but I really need to get back and check some cultures,” Carlos says.

The squeeze that comes next is definitely not fond.

“Now, now, Carlos. You know what they say, all work and no play makes the Sheriff’s Secret Police search your house while you sleep. And also, they kind of mess up your drawers and it’s really annoying.”

Carlos has never heard that one before, but he takes a bite of butter pecan sprinkled with gummy bears and nods as though yes, he’s quite familiar with the saying. Cecil’s hand moves from his shoulder back down to his shoulder blade. The movement is nearly imperceptible, feather-light.

Not quite there enough to ask him to stop. Not quite there enough for Carlos to know if he wants him to stop.

They reach the Night Vale Community Radio station before Carlos can talk his way out of it. The building’s not what he’d imagined it to be. It’s cold and concrete, and with its few windows looks more like it’s built to keep something in than it is for broadcasting. Cecil opens a door much heavier than it has any right to be with the hand not still on Carlos.

Carlos has no idea when Cecil’s frozen yogurt disappeared, and he’s ushered in before he can ask.

It’s dark inside, darker than it should be. The curtains on the windows aren’t drawn, but the light creeps in only at the edges. Carlos tells himself this is normal, there’s an explanation for everything. He’s just come inside from the afternoon sun, of course it’ll take his eyes time to adjust.

“Watch out for the decorative barbed wire,” says Cecil, closing the door behind him.

The lighting’s better then, not that it makes any more sense. There’s a deep purple haze covering everything, as though he’s looking through sunglasses. Someone speaks in another room, their words a meaningless buzz to Carlos’s ears.

His sleeve catches on something sharp when he turns to look at Cecil, and that must be the barbed wire he was taking about.

“I can’t stay here,” Carlos says, does his best to use his stern there-is-science-that-needs-sciencing voice. Because there is, and there never won’t be.

“I think science can wait in lieu of a little hospitality,” Cecil says. He’s standing too close and his face is too close and his breath smells like the salted caramel frozen yogurt Carlos hadn’t seen him eat. “Why not have a little tour of our fine establishment? I promise to be only the kindest and most informative of tour guides.”

“Mind taking a raincheck?” Carlos asks.

“11:27,” is Cecil’s answer. “P.M., of course.”

“What?”

“That’s when you started listening last night. And then you finished at 11:59,” Cecil says, continuing to lead Carlos through the halls.

The way Cecil’s expression, or what Carlos can make out of it in the dark, goes a little sly when he mentions finishing makes the hair on Carlos’ forearms stand on end.

“The night before that was a little later, though. Must have been five minutes into the show, already.” Cecil pauses, and his neck makes a soft cracking noise as he tilts his head. “Yes, exactly that. Five minutes after the start. Although you did hang around fifteen seconds into the next program. What was it again?”

Carlos isn’t going to jump through hoops so much as Cecil is going to force him through them.

“It was old men having a shouting match outside your window while you try to sleep,” Carlos says. He remembers because it had woken him up just as he drifted off.

Cecil raises his hand and twirls a finger in the air, stops himself when there’s nothing there. He must do that with the cord to his headset, a pleased gesture driven by muscle memory.

“Basically, what I’m getting at is that I know how much you love the show. You’re such a fan, aren’t you?”

Carlos flicks his tongue over his lips and nods. There’s a buzzing in his head, like a more tolerable form of tinnitus. The room isn’t coming into focus any more than it was before, and his eyes aren’t adjusting to the dimness.

“Why do you listen, though?” Cecil asks. His neck cracks again as he tilts it the other way, and the hand that comes to rest on the small of Carlos’ back gets his feet moving.

He’s not sure if he’s heading into the touch or trying to get away.

The break room smells like cardboard and cigarette smoke, and the vending machine drops something without either of them touching it. The drip and hiss of coffee being made sounds in the corner, and the guttural, wet noise that comes next puts Carlos on end, leaning back into Cecil’s touch as his body tenses.

Cecil guides him past the mens’ washroom next, holds the swinging door open with one hand and lets Carlos peek in. He sees the cat he’s heard Cecil mention on the radio before, dark and sleeping, hovering gently. The tap next to it is running and there’s a feather toy nearby.

Carlos doesn’t go closer, because he’s not here for Khoshekh. He’s not here for the break room, he’s not here for a tour. But all he can do is stand and listen as Cecil fills him in on the brief history he already knows.

Cecil takes him down the hallway to the recording booth, their footsteps echoing too loud and deep for a building so small on the outside.

His hands are empty when they enter the recording booth, and he doesn’t remember when that happened. He’s too busy shuffling his way over a snaking mess of wires in a room that’s nothing short of humid as he steps into it.

He can see better in here, though he finds no light source. He looks over a desk with neatly organized papers and a coffee mug full of pens. There’s an open notebook with short sentences jotted down, meaningless scribbles in the margins.

The buzzing is the greatest in this room, and Carlos thinks it must be all the electric equipment. The warmth is strongest here, too. That awful kind of foggy heat that eats at his senses as he stares at the ‘On Air’ sign that’s unlit.

“You never told me why you listen,” Cecil says as he shuts the door.

There is an air to Cecil that Carlos can only describe as parental omnipotence. The way they can tell a lie from truth, insincerity from the heartfelt. There’s no use in hiding things, in lying to him, so Carlos doesn’t answer.

“That’s fine, you don’t have to talk. Because I get it, Carlos. I really do. You’re not the first outsider to wander out in the desert like this, though I wouldn’t mind if you were the last.”

Though Cecil pauses, there’s no room for Carlos in this conversation. This isn’t about what he thinks or wants to say. It’s not about his words, but Cecil’s.

“You don’t listen because you want to stay informed. Maybe in the beginning, you did. But not anymore. And you don’t listen for me, which is fine. I won’t be so big-headed as to demand both your professional and personal attention simply because I own what it is you listen for.”

The wall is close, then closer as Carlos’ back bumps against it. Against his stomach is Cecil, warm and just as solid as what’s behind him. He’s too near for his face to be visible, and that’s alright, because his lips are at Carlos’ ear, breath hot as he speaks.

“You listen for my voice.”

Carlos doesn’t argue, because it’s true. He’s never tuned in for Cecil, for this physical form that now has a knee between his. He’s only the vessel for what Carlos wants, the harbinger of the sound he craves.

Carlos tips his head back against the wall with a wordless sigh. There’s no need for him to speak, not when Cecil is already talking, words blending until they’re meaningless in Carlos’ head and all he wants to think about is what is does to his blood.

In turn, Carlos doesn’t mind that Cecil has no interest in his own voice, only his body. It’s a fair trade, Carlos thinks. It’s a science he doesn’t understand, this hold Cecil has on him. But understanding can wait, and for once he allows thoughts of calculating and analyzing to sit on the back burner, and simply listens.


End file.
